


Born To Run (or, Why Clint Barton Should Really Invest In Some Curtains)

by eiluned



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Humor, Pre-Avengers Movie, Vaguely Romantic Feelings, because really what else do I write?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 07:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eiluned/pseuds/eiluned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint likes Springsteen, beer, and dancing in his underwear.  Natasha likes climbing up his fire escape.  You can see where this is going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born To Run (or, Why Clint Barton Should Really Invest In Some Curtains)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chezamanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chezamanda/gifts).



> I like it when fic ideas slap me in the face and make me write them right then omg. The lyrics are from Bruce Springsteen's "Born To Run." Thanks to Amanda for looking this over. This is for the Hive Mind; it's been a crappy few weeks, and we could use some nearly-naked Clint in our lives. <3 
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated!

Natasha had never been a fan of using stairwells and elevators and front doors. What was the challenge in going to Clint's apartment the same way that everyone else did?

So she climbed the fire escape. It served the dual purpose of an acrobatic workout and getting her into his place (usually scaring the shit out of him at the same time, which was an added bonus).

She waved at the old Cuban man who lived two floors down from Clint as she passed his window, and he waved back, grinning at her. The apartment just below Clint was empty, and that was probably a good thing because his music was so loud that it was making the fire escape rattle.

Jumping up, she caught hold of the rail and flipped herself up onto the platform outside his window, not even bothering to land softly because it wasn't like he would hear her. He probably wouldn't have heard a bomb going off with as loud as his stereo was cranked up.

Settling down cross-legged to catch her breath, she leaned onto the sill and looked through the window, expecting to find him asleep on the couch (as he usually was at 4 pm on a day off, though she was never sure how he could sleep with music blaring).

Instead, she saw him dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts, dancing around his living room with a beer bottle in hand. It was somewhat muffled through the closed window, but she was pretty sure he was singing along with Bruce Springsteen into his bottle/microphone.

She stifled a laugh into her hand. "He's been at it all afternoon," someone called, and she looked to see Yoga Lady, as Clint called her, leaning out of her own window across the alley. "If you can get him to shut up, I will bake you some of my famous vegan chocolate cupcakes."

Natasha did laugh then. "Let me get some blackmail material first," she called back, "And then I'll make him turn it down."

Yoga Lady grinned and closed her window, and Natasha carefully worked the ruler (she'd stashed it on the fire escape specifically for this purpose) under the window and pried it up enough to get her fingers underneath it. The first couple of inches were difficult, but after she got past that spot with the gunked up paint, the window slid up easily, and it felt kind of like being hit in the face with a wall of sound.

She could just barely hear Clint over the music, but he was definitely singing along into his beer, shaking his rather delectible ass in time with "Born to Run." 

Natasha did what any sane person would do and whipped out her phone to shoot a video.

"Just wrap your legs round these velvet rims and strap your hands 'cross my engines!" he sang, and he was _really_ into it: eyes closed, forehead screwed up with the force of his identification with Springsteen circa 1975. "Together we could break this trap! We'll run until we drop, baby we'll never go back..."

He really was a good singer, and even though she was seriously contemplating sending this video to Coulson immediately, she couldn't help appreciating his voice, which somehow managed to be clear and husky all at the same time.

"Ohhh will you walk with me out on the wire? 'Cause baby, I'm just a scared and lonely rider but I got to know how it feels," he belted out, suddenly going still. "I want to know if love is wild, girl, I want to know if love is real..."

Facing the window, she had a really good view of his boxer-clad body, and she stopped recording then, tucking her phone back into her pocket. At this point it was more like soft core porn made just for her and not so much blackmail material anymore. She made a mental note to not send the video to Coulson after all, no matter how much it would crack him up.

Unfortunately Clint chose that particular moment to open his eyes just before launching into the next verse, and when he saw Natasha in the window, he jumped at least a foot in the air, sloshing beer all over the place.

Natasha nearly fell over laughing, and it was a good thing she was habitually aware of her surroundings because ten floors was a long fall.

The music quieted abruptly and Clint came stomping over to the window. "Jesus tapdancing Christ, Natasha," he barked, rubbing his hand over his bare chest. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"I didn't mean to interrupt your performance," she cackled, letting him grab her by the wrist and pull her into the apartment. "That was really good. You should take it on the road."

"Oh, shut up," he said, but it was good natured, and when she climbed past him, he smacked her on the ass in retaliation, making her yelp.

"Are you ever going to get used to me climbing up your fire escape?" she asked. "Because I do it all the time, you know."

Rolling his eyes, he ducked into the tiny kitchen and came back with a few paper towels so he could mop up the spilled beer off of the hardwood floor. "No, I'm never going to get used to living on the tenth floor and looking over to see you peering my window," he said.

"Yoga Lady offered to bake me vegan cupcakes if I got you to shut up," she commented, kicking off her shoes and plopping down on the couch.

Clint's nose curled up at the idea of cupcakes without eggs, and Natasha rolled her eyes back at him, pulling her legs up underneath her.

"So what's up?" he asked, tossing the wet paper towels into the trash can. "Or did you just drop by to scare the shit out of me? I'm beginning to think this is your hobby."

She gave him a little grin as he sprawled on the sofa beside her, completely unselfconscious about being in his underwear in front of her. She had to confess that she didn't mind in the least. Getting to see Clint in various states of undress was the highlight of any given day, and anyway, it was good to get paid back for all the times he'd seen her nearly naked through a scope.

"I was bored," she said.

"You're always bored on days off. You want a beer?"

"What kind is it?"

He turned the bottle around in his hand to check. "Fat Tire," he read. "Amber ale."

"Why the hell not? Thanks."

He pushed himself back up as a Foo Fighters song started up on the stereo, leaving his bottle on the floor as he went to the fridge, and she bent down to steal a sip, wincing a little at the flavor. She wasn't much of a beer fan, but it wasn't too bad, and anyway, it would be nice to get a buzz going on her day off.

Beer in hand, he caught her taking a drink from his bottle and shook his head at her, clicking his tongue. "How do I know you don't have mono?" he said, handing her the beer and taking his own back.

"If I had mono, you'd already have caught it, Barton," she replied with a smirk, tapping her bottle against his. " _За тебя_."

"Here's to the king," Clint replied.

He took a swig, but Natasha wrinkled her brow at him. "What king?" she asked.

"Fucking," he said with a grin.

"Oh, I see what kind of day off this is going to be."

His grin grew wider as she swallowed a long pull of beer. "Fortifying yourself?" he asked.

"It's kind of warm today," she said. "Gatorade would work better than beer, but you've gotta take what you can get."

As if cued by fate, "Dancing in the Dark" started playing on the stereo, and Clint tossed his head back to laugh. "Well, my playlist is telling us to have sex, so..." he shrugged as if to say the matter was out of his hands.

Beer bottles were forgotten on the end table, and Natasha ended up in his lap, sucking on his tongue as he slid his hands down the back of her jeans to cup her ass. "Close the window," she panted, breaking away to catch her breath, "Or Yoga Lady definitely won't bake me cupcakes."

"They're gonna be gross cupcakes anyway," he mumbled pulling her shirt off and burying his face between her breasts.

"No, they're not," she protested, biting her lip as he pushed her bra straps off of her shoulders and got his hands on the newly bared skin.

"God, you're so hot," he breathed, and she let out a little cry when his thumbs brushed over her hardened nipples.

"Window."

Grumbling, he set her to the side (and it secretly thrilled her when he manhandled her like that) and went to close the offending window. Reaching behind her back, she unhooked her bra and tossed it to the floor, settling back to watch his ass as he shoved the window past the gunky paint so it would close. "Stop ogling me," he called over his shoulder. "I know you're looking at my ass."

"You know you love it when I objectify you," she replied, stretching out on the sofa so when he turned back around, he got a good eyeful of topless redhead on his couch.

And sure enough, he turned around and stopped in his tracks, letting out a low whistle. "Goddamn," he said. "I'm never gonna get tired of looking at you."

She felt her cheeks flush at the compliment, and she crooked a finger at him. "Come back over here," she said. "Now that the window's shut, you can make me scream as loud as I can."

Clint's eyebrow went up and his mouth quirked into the little grin she loved so much, the one that said he was going to do all kinds of naughty things to her and that she was going to love every single one of them.

Her pants and his boxers came off like magic, and he proceeded to make her scream loudly enough that the old Cuban guy two floors down could probably hear it. And then she flipped him onto his back and blew his mind, bucking against him until he howled her name, pressing his face against the curve of her neck as he whimpered and groaned.

And when they were done (with round one, she thought with a smirk), he thoughtfully reached over his head and handed her her beer.

She really did like Clint Barton.

"Mmm," she hummed, holding the still-cold bottle between her breasts as she sat up astride him. "Thanks."

"For the beer or the orgasms?" he quipped back, giving her a lazy grin as his damp hand trailed down the outer curve of her breast. "Orgasm _s_. Note the plural."

"The plural has been duly noted. And thanks for both."

"Any time, sweetheart. Any time."

It suddenly filtered through her sex-addled mind that music was still playing, and when she realized what it was, she laughed and accidentally dribbled beer down onto his chest.

"Ew, you just spit on me," he complained, trying to hide a laugh. "What the hell?"

"I can't believe we just had sex on your couch while Journey was playing on the stereo. What is this, 1984?"

Grinning widely at her, he took the bottle out of her hand and took a long swig of beer before handing it back. "Seduction: The Clint Barton Method," he said very seriously.

Bending down, she kissed him long and slow, blindly putting the beer back on the table when he wrapped his arms around her and began rocking his hips again.

"You're lucky it worked," she murmured, swallowing his laugh in another kiss.


End file.
